


a tragedy rewritten

by pyladic



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Oresteia - Aeschylus
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:27:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyladic/pseuds/pyladic
Summary: Honestly I kind of hate this piece but it's the first thing I've written in a while so please take it and read the Oresteia by Anne Carson.





	a tragedy rewritten

Water hung in the air in a fine mist, turning the landscape into a hazy forest of shadows. The leaves fell in lazy spirals to the forest floor, mottled green and brown and red, on the bed of needles that covered the dirt. It was rocky dirt. Not good for planting. Of course, nobody farmed this land. It was cursed, the locals said, keeping their voices low and casting nervous glances towards the craggy mountain peaks, as if afraid of what they might call down by speaking its name too loudly.

He’d heard the stories, of course. They’d traveled as far as Phocis, to the bed he’d slept in as a child, to his mother’s whispered tales on nights he was deemed old enough to hear. Some monster dwelt in Delphi, she told him, some horror beyond comprehension. People only went there in times of direst need, and if they returned, they didn’t come back the same.

Years later, his father told him the truth of things – the oracle at Delphi was divine, chosen by the god Apollo to speak his truth on Earth, only to be consulted at his own risk. Hearing the truth, Pylades couldn’t help finding he preferred his mother’s version of things, and supposed he’d always been more her son. They even looked the same, the same dark, curling hair, the same pointed nose and dark complexion and questioning eyes. Maybe that was why his father couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. Maybe the reminder was too much for him, now that she was gone.

She’d died when he was nearly ten, in childbirth with what should have been his younger brother. He’d watched from the doorway, too terrified to come in and say a proper goodbye, even when she reached out for him, face twisted in pain, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

The day after they finished the burial rites for mother and child, the boy from Argos arrived.

***

He stopped midday to rest. The trees and the mist provided some respite from the mist, but it was still sweltering, and the climb up the mountain was grueling. Every joint ached, the sensation like a bell ringing against his skull, every wave of it echoing and reverberating down through his bones.

Why had he thought this was a good idea, again? Any of this?

He took a long gulp of water from the skin and closed his eyes against the sun, tipping his face up to it. He’d done this because it was his fault. That was why. He was here because he’d pushed, and now the gods were out for blood, and if he didn’t try to fix it, nobody would. So he had to keep going, keep climbing this interminable mountain, no matter how much he didn’t want to. In the end, his goals were simple enough. Find the oracle. Beg for help. Pray it didn’t see fit to kill him on the spot. Chase the rumors all the way back to Phocis if he had to. Try to find a way to make things alright again.

Put like that, it didn’t seem undoable.

The only food left at the bottom of the bag was a stale crust of bread, hard and starting to mold. He considered it for a moment, then flicked it onto the ground. There. A sacrifice for Apollo. There was a part of him that hoped the god would see fit to choke on it.

***

The boy from Argos was quiet, always looking down at his sandals instead of whoever was speaking to him. Pylades supposed he had a right to be suspicious of them. His father hadn’t told him why this boy was here, but earlier in the day, sitting outside the washroom with a book, he’d overheard the women talking.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” That was Alcestis, the oldest of them. Her back was hunched, her knuckles always swollen and her hands red with the sting of soap day in and out. But she was kind, he knew. After his mother’s death, she’d washed the bodies for the funeral rites even when no one had asked her to. “I can’t imagine – a woman like that, killing her own husband?”

His ears perk up, and he looks up from the book just as Nephele’s tinkling laughter fills the room. She snorts, the indelicacy of the sound miles away from the coquettish looks she’d worn when the soldiers from Ithaca had been here, looking for tribute. Hunting for a husband, his father had said. By all appearances, she hadn’t managed to catch one.

“Can’t you? With a husband like that? He was here last year, you know. He tried to take me to his bed with a wife waiting for him at home.” Her voice softens, and he has to strain to hear. 

“And after what he did to their daughter –”

“You shouldn’t speak of such things –”

“What if she comes back to take her son back? They say he favors his father –“

“Hush, Nephele.” Alcestis’s voice is sharp. “Work, for once. It might do you good.”

***

The air got cooler the farther he got up the mountain. The sword knocked against his knee with every step, until he gave up and strapped it to his back instead. More unwieldy if it came to a fight, but really, it wasn’t as if having it within easier reach might improve his odds all that much. He’d trained to fight, like any firstborn son. No one could say his father hadn’t tried to make a hero out of him. Besides, Orestes was always much better at those kinds of things. He could take care of it. Once he found him.

If he found him.

***

No one could say his father didn’t try to do his best for the son of his friend. The king of Argos was gone to Troy to fight, along with every other ruler worth his salt. As far as Pylades could see, the only reason his father didn’t go with was to keep an eye on this boy. Or maybe he was just a coward. Maybe that was it.

They shared a tutor for months before they every spoke to one another. His name was Orestes. They were of an age, and he was maddeningly, infuriatingly quiet. The most Pylades ever heard of him was low hum of his voice as he answered the tutor’s questions in a whisper.

He’d catch Orestes watching, sometimes. Never when he’d think anyone would be paying attention. Across the room at the table for a moment, before he’d cast his eyes down to his plate. At the river, flicking stones into the water. In the orchard, once, from below, while he was sneaking figs from his father’s trees.

***

The sun was setting when he made it to the mouth of the cave, casting long shadows. It had cooled considerably, the unbearable humidity thickening back into mist that swathed the darkness inside. The cold dampness of it prickled at his skin, and he couldn’t suppress a shiver. Whoever lived here certainly seemed to have a flair for the dramatic.

_Who seeks the oracle?_ The voice slithered into his ear as he took the first step into the cave. Somehow, it battered against the inside of his skull, painful and overwhelming. All the stories rushed back into his mind, travelers returning home after consulting the oracle and killing their families, prophecies gone terribly wrong, a man who had ignored the oracle’s words and ended up committing unspeakable crimes before gouging out his own eyes.

Who was to say that this would work at all?

But there was no turning back now, because somewhere out there, Orestes needed to be found. There was no turning back because if it was him, he was sure Orestes wouldn’t even think twice.

He took a deep breath. “I’m not seeking the oracle,” he said. In the gloom, his own voice sounded – not small. Calm. Just human. “I’m just asking for directions.”

***

His father’s land wasn’t renowned for its warriors, which was something that could have brought them fame, or cunning, or even good musicians. What they had instead were figs, some of the best figs in the world. Traders flocked to their island every fall, their boats filled with wares, and during those few weeks, the streets and farmlands were bustling and colorful. The weeks before harvest were much quieter. If you were looking to steal some of the early ones, that was the best time to do it.

At the age of fourteen, frustrated with the sword, and wanting things he couldn’t have, looking for trouble seemed like the best solution.

The younger trees had the sweetest fruit. The older they got, the tougher the figs were, but the easier they were to climb. Higher risk, sweeter reward. And he’d always been a good climber.

Falling was a surprise, and so was the sudden, painful crunch in his arm. It cracked against a rock, the pain white hot and choking off his throat so he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The orchard wasn’t far from the house, but it could be hours before anyone thought to look at all, before anyone even noticed his absence, and it was getting to be dusk.

Wide gray eyes stared down at him. Orestes was holding a fig in his hand, he noticed. He lifted it and bit into it like he wasn’t sure what else to do with his hands. The juice stained his fingertips dark purple, tinted his mouth a little darker.

“Can you stand?”

Pylades stared up at him, the pain buzzing in his ears. The question didn’t make sense, but he tried anyway, managing to sit up at least before his eyes started clouding with dark spots. “I don’t think so.”

He held out his hand, warm and a little sticky, and hauled Pylades to his feet, and they made their way back together, slow and unsteady, holding tight like children, like the last time they’d known fear.

***

He follows the oracle’s instructions towards the swamps on Phocis. The familiar landscape feels right, and on the high cliffs, he can see the rough edges of the stone battlements. His father’s idea. What reason was there to attack a place like this? The whole island was desolate, apart from the orchards.

South, the oracle had said. So he went south.

South took him towards the most deserted part of the island, the pine forests. There, the trees were thick and old, taller than anything he’d ever seen. As he walked, listening for telltale snaps in the underbrush, he tried to estimate how many people it would take, arms outstretched, to span the base. Three, possibly, and maybe more.

He has to be getting closer. If he goes much farther, he’ll reach the other end of the island, the orchard. 

The orchard. He runs the whole way.

***

He remembers the day things went bad with perfect clarity, considering it was nearly a month ago now. He’d been walking out towards the fields – figs were good enough for import, but you couldn’t expect a whole population to live on them year round, and he was going to have to know these things one day if he wanted to be any kind of king. 

Orestes hurried towards him, a wild look in his eyes, clearly close to bubbling over about something. “Pylades! It’s Apollo! He wants me to—" He stopped short in front of him, taking a few gasping breaths. Had he run here?

“What is it? What does he want?” He kept his eyes on the book, voice dry. It had to be a joke, didn’t it? The gods didn’t just tell boys like them what to do, hand out divine decrees like they were commonplace. He thought of Orestes’ family, of Agamemnon, dead for years now, of the curse on that family, now only spoken of in hushed rumor, and felt sick to his stomach. Divine decrees might not happen to boys like him, but Orestes was a different breed altogether. Families like that had divinity running through their veins, and that never came without pain.

But it was a joke. It had to be. He wasn’t going to let himself think anything else of it.

Orestes took a deep breath. “He wants me to kill my mother.”

***

It hasn’t been long since they’ve been away. A month, maybe. Still, returning to the orchard has the sickly feeling of inevitability he experiences whenever he picks up a sword. No matter how hard he tries, it’s not going to sit right in his hands. Some things, he just isn’t made for.

The trees are overgrown and unattended, the figs, overripe, falling from the branches and creating a sticky layer of mulch under his feet. The whole place smells of decay, saccharine sweet and oozing into his mouth. Underneath that is the iron tang of blood, so that’s what he follows. They’re steeped in blood, both of them, and it’s his fault, his fault, his. 

The tree. It’s still there, the figs just starting to ripen, like a blessing. Like an omen. Pylades hurries forward, follows the scent of blood straight to him.

There’s blood all over, crusting and grimy on his hands, smeared across his face. More blood than the last time he saw him, when Orestes had spit his mother’s body on the end of a sword in his father’s house, looking more like a frightened child than the last of the family of heroes he’s supposed to have become.

Clytemnestra had fallen, body sprawling against the tiles, now slick with her blood. The blood was everywhere, painting them both red. Then the humming had started, a buzzing that seemed to come from nowhere. Orestes dropped the sword, hair whipping in an invisible wind, eyes focused on something only he could see. His voice broke on a high, keening scream, and then, just as suddenly he was gone, out the door and into the night.

Pylades felt them more than saw them, heard the raspy drag of a tail across the floor, felt something like talons scratch across the back of his neck. He knew enough to know what they were, and not to look. Furies. Bringers of vengeance. Murder, matricide – those were the kinds of things they dealt in. And like a fool, he’d thought Orestes would be protected, thought that Apollo would see to it that they came through alright.

It’s his fault, all of this. He pushed. When Orestes faltered, when he hesitated, Pylades had been right there, telling him that it had to be done, that his mother’s death was nothing less than what the gods were demanding. It had been an impossible choice, and between the gods to repay and the unknown terrors to come if Apollo were disobeyed, he’d urged the former. Of course he had. Whatever horrors would be visited on them later were nothing to the threat of Apollo’s fury.

He hadn’t thought it could get so bad. He hadn’t known how bad it would get until getting here.

Orestes looked up, blood-smeared hands shaking. He looked frail, skeletal. Like a man bracing for the end. His eyes were wide and wild. For a moment, he thought there was nothing human in there at all. 

Carefully, hesitantly, he crouched in front of Orestes. Moved a strand of blood-crusted hair out of his face.

“I didn’t think you were coming.” His voice was raw. 

Pylades paused. Swallowed. “I was looking for you.”

This might have been his fault, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop trying now. He owed them better than that. He knew the stories, knew what happened to people the gods want for their own. There’s no happy ending for them.

Orestes met his eyes, smiled that crooked smile he’d been half in love with since the age of fourteen. “You found me.”

If he can, he’ll make sure they get a better ending.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly I kind of hate this piece but it's the first thing I've written in a while so please take it and read the Oresteia by Anne Carson.


End file.
